


if i only could, i'd make a deal with god (and get him to swap our places)

by bisexualfpjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Tread Carefully, lmfao why we gotta tag sex acts but anyway, so much homophobia, some characters tagged may show up again but are like one liners right now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualfpjones/pseuds/bisexualfpjones
Summary: FP could almost laugh at his father’s ignorance. He knew who he was, with or without Fred. Senior made up his mind long ago that Fred Andrews was some pariah sent to seduce and corrupt his son, but FP suspects he knows the truth deep down. Just doesn’t want to admit he raised afagall on his own. Anything he can do to put the blame elsewhere… Which is exactly why FP learned quick enough that he could never let Fred and his dad occupy the same space. Not without witnesses. Even just stepping foot onto the South Side was too risky.But Fred was never much for following orders. Or correctly estimating the level of danger he was putting himself in. Which is why when he got wind of FP having the trailer to himself for the evening, he decided to make an appearance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> write the murder fic you want to see in the world, ammirite ladieeezz??? anyway, title from kate bush's running up that hill because ya know... im original

Normally he wasn’t this careless. His dad was supposed to be out late (some important Serpent business that needed tending to, likely followed by an even more important late night of free drinks at the Wyrm) which was why Fred was even invited over in the first place. 

Forsythe Senior didn’t care much for anybody, but he held a special contempt for the youngest Andrews, and he certainly had no trouble making it known. Fred had always been a happy-go-lucky kid. A free spirit. A little… _outside the lines_ of what was expected of boys his age, and Senior hated every drop of it. The fact that his own son had chosen to be so chummy with the pansy only served to fuel his hatred. 

They were “too close,” he would say. Tried scaring FP with talk of what he could catch if he hung around with the Fred Andrews of the world. Warned him of the trouble he’d be bringing upon himself. Made sure to leave blotches of blues and purples on his skin to remind him. 

FP could almost laugh at his father’s ignorance. He knew who he was, with or without Fred. Senior made up his mind long ago that Fred Andrews was some pariah sent to seduce and corrupt his son, but FP suspects he knows the truth deep down. Just doesn’t want to admit he raised a _fag_ all on his own. Anything he can do to put the blame elsewhere… Which is exactly why FP learned quick enough that he could never let Fred and his dad occupy the same space. Not without witnesses. Even just stepping foot onto the South Side was too risky.

But Fred was never much for following orders. Or correctly estimating the level of danger he was putting himself in. Which is why when he got wind of FP having the trailer to himself for the evening, he decided to make an appearance.

They had a history report, Fred reminded FP as he snuck through his bedroom window. Totally innocent, though his face suggested otherwise. At the very least, it would be an easy enough cover to throw at Senior if he happened to stumble in early. That was the justification FP settled on in his head while he was staring down the big round puppy eyes Fred gave him.

But somewhere along the way Fred had started drifting in and out of consciousness (a lethal combination of too many baseball practices that week, history being his least favorite subject, and maybe the joint he and FP had shared). 

They’d been sprawled out on FP’s bed, FP resting up by the pillows while Fred laid down by his feet. FP had tried to keep Fred up, would tickle his toes or try scaring him awake, but it was no use, and when Fred had yawned something deep from his chest, crawling up towards FP to nestle all snug against his side and tell him he just needed five minutes and “Take a nap with me, F” as he nuzzled his cheek against FP’s chest, how was FP supposed to say no?

“Five minutes and that’s it,” FP had asserted as he slung his arm around Fred’s shoulders and held him tight to his side. 

“Five minutes, promise,” Fred slurred in return.

It was one mistake. One slip up. 

“What the fuck is this?” Senior’s booming voice calls out. 

The boys startle awake, instant recognition on their faces as they realize the hell they’ve just woken up in. 

Fred jumps back from where he’d been peacefully resting on FP’s chest. He almost trips over his own feet trying to put distance between himself and the dark, looming storm that is FP’s father. 

He watches FP in front him, arm stretched out like that’s going to be enough to shield Fred from his father’s wrath. Hears the start of a plea. _”This isn’t- We weren’t-”_ But FP gives up trying to explain. They’re past the point of explanations.

Fred doesn’t know what’s about to happen. Or, he can hazard a guess. He’s cleaned up enough of FP’s wounds to know what his father is capable of. But Senior’s never actually caught FP doing anything, even if it was something as harmless as sleeping, and he’s definitely never caught his son doing anything with Fred, and Fred doesn’t know what the hell that means for _him_, but-

“Fred, GO!” FP yells right as he’s charging the older man and body-checking him into the wall on the other side of the room. 

Fred’s still frozen in place. The concept of fight or flight comes to him, but he can’t put either into action. It’s like he’s broken, malfunctioning. He’s supposed to _do_ something, but he can’t.

There’s too much going on. Senior towers over his son, but somehow FP’s managing to hold his own. Fred doesn’t know if he’d necessarily call it winning - Senior’s landing blow after blow to FP’s face, his stomach, his ribs - but FP’s still on his feet. He yells between his father’s slurs and venom for Fred to leave again, and for some reason this time it takes. 

They need help. _FP_ needs help. Fred will just run to a neighbor, call the cops. Senior will get locked away and it will finally put an end to this nightmare FP’s been living with for the past 17 years. 

That’s Fred’s train of thought as he books it towards the window, but he stops halfway out when he hears FP yelping and the sound of something dragging over the carpet.

Fred freezes in the window, one foot out and the other still planted in the Jones’ trailer. He looks over and sees that the sound he heard was FP’s feet dragging along the floor, kicking and trying to find purchase as his father pulls him along by his hair. FP’s screaming at him to let him go, is trying to scratch and claw at Senior’s hands to let him loose.

There’s no time for neighbors. There’s no time for cops. No one’s coming.

Fred’s foot catches on the window and he almost plants face first in his scramble to get back inside.

He finds them in the kitchen, FP’s on his hands and knees coughing up blood while his father looms over him, unrelenting.

“Get up! I said _GET THE FUCK UP. FUCKING FAGGOT!_” Senior’s screaming. FP tries, but he’s in too much pain to get a hold of himself, gets to one knee and slips back down. Fred watches as Senior brings his foot up just to slam it back down onto FP’s ribs, watches the way FP just drops like a load of bricks. 

Senior grabs a fistful of hair again and is pulling FP up, and that’s when the other side of fight or flight kicks in, and Fred’s screaming and running at the older man trying to get him to stop. FP barely looks alive. 

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he tries. Tries to get him to stop. Tries to push him out of the way. But it’s like Senior’s a cement block and no matter what Fred does it’ll never be enough.

Fred was never sure how much of the bible stories he was told in church he believed, but he knows now beyond a shadow of a doubt, looking into the cold, bottomless pit of Senior’s eyes, that the devil is real.

“You lettin’ some flamer fight your battles now for you, huh? This fuckin’ pussy?” Is all Senior says before suddenly his hand is encompassing the entire expanse of Fred’s face and shoving him back hard enough that he stumbles and hits the wall.

His head thuds with enough force to blackout his vision for a second and his whole balance is thrown off, causing him to slide to the floor as he reaches for the back of his head in pain and tries blinking his vision back into focus. 

“F…” he tries, but he doesn’t know if his voice is actually coming out that soft or if his hearing’s just fucked. He squeezes his eyes shut, the stinging in his skull becoming almost unbearable, but when he opens them again he’s met with his worst fear. 

Senior’s hunched over his son, hands so tight around his neck that Fred can see the veins popping out of his arms. 

“FP!” Fred manages to croak out. He can hear his boyfriend struggling for breath, watches as his hands do their best to beat against his attacker, try to push him away, try to do _anything_.

Fred’s never felt so goddamn scared in his life. Still out of it from his collision with the wall, he clambers his way trying to find purchase on anything. His legs slip out from under him a couple of times before his hands finally find a counter, something to hold on to to pull himself up.

He grabs the first thing he touches, doesn’t even bother to look to see what it is. It feels like glass. An ashtray, maybe? It doesn’t matter. He’s running on autopilot now as he rushes the eldest Jones. FP’s arms go limp right as Fred raises his own up, letting out a guttural cry as he brings the blunt object down onto Senior’s head. 

Senior goes down, falls off and away from his son, but Fred doesn’t have time to assess the damage. Doesn’t really care to.

He rushes to FP’s side instead, finds that he’s still breathing, but barely. He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks he should try CPR, but everything on FP’s face looks so fucking broken that Fred’s afraid to touch. 

“Come on… come on, baby. You gotta wake up.” His hands ghost over his boyfriend’s face trying to find a safe place to land, but there’s nothing. He settles on pounding on FP’s chest instead. “FP, wake up. Wake up!”

There’s tears splattering onto FP’s cheeks, streaking the already drying blood, and it’s the first time Fred realizes he’s crying. 

He checks over his shoulder briefly to see that Senior’s still down. Fred figures they’ve got some time before he wakes up, but he doesn’t know how much. 

“_FUCK_, FP! WAKE UP!” 

With one last punch to FP’s chest, he coughs awake, gasping for air as his eyes shoot open. 

Overcome with relief, Fred falls on top of the other boy, holding him so tightly in his arms he feels like he might break him. “Jesus Christ you scared me,” he whispers against FP’s ear before placing a kiss to his hair. 

FP doesn’t respond, but his arms are wound just as tight around Fred’s waist even as Fred pulls him up to a sitting position. Maybe it’s the shock of the situation - FP just trying to process it all - but there’s no time for FP to shut down. Not if they want to be as far away from the trailer park as possible before Senior wakes up. 

“Come on, we gotta go.” Fred makes a move to stand up, tries taking FP with him, but he won’t budge. He tries again, slipping his arms under FP’s to pull him up, but still nothing. “Quit fucking around, FP, your dad’s gonna get up any minute!”

“I don’t think he’s getting up, Fred.” FP’s voice comes out rough and hoarse, a reminder of the ordeal he just went through. It makes his words that much more eerie. 

“What are you- FP, we have to-” Fred’s throat closes as he follows FP’s line of sight and his eyes fall upon the pool of red gathered on the kitchen floor by Senior’s head. He didn’t think he had hit him that hard. He couldn’t have…

It doesn’t feel real. Even as FP’s gently moving Fred aside to get to his father, Fred watching as FP gives him a few nudges, checks for a pulse, gets nothing in response… it isn’t real. 

“Freddie, he’s-”

“No! Don’t say it!” Like he’s reverting back to childhood, Fred clamps his hands over his ears and sits with his head between his knees. _Thisisn’trealthisisn’trealthisisn’treal_. This isn’t happening, this isn’t his life. He feels like he’s gonna puke…

“Fred!” FP’s voice, along with his hands on top of Fred’s, pull Fred out of his trance enough for him to snap his head up. “We have to clean up, get rid of the body-”

“Get rid of the...? The fuck are you talking about?” Fred doesn’t understand. FP just jumps from one extreme to the next. The fuck is he thinking? Hiding a _body_. Just like that. Like they’re taking out the trash. 

“What do you want me to do? Cook breakfast around him?”

“Are you- have you lost your FUCKING MIND? WE HAVE TO CALL THE POLI-”

FP shoves his hand over Fred’s mouth before he can finish. “Shut the fuck up! You want the neighbors to hear you?”

Fred pulls the hand off his mouth, throwing FP’s arm away from him as he scrambles to get up. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“We are not getting the cops involved, Fred,” FP says as he gets to his feet, glaring at Fred the whole time. His tone suggests this isn’t up for debate, but Fred begs to differ. 

“Oh, cut the South Side loyalty bullshit, FP. We’re way past that.”

It was the unspoken rule of the South Side: No cops. Ever. It was the reason brave (and stupid) North Siders came down here to pick fights. The reason drug deals were handled on this side of town. 

The reason Fred was forbidden to tell anyone about Senior’s particular brand of punishments for his kid. The reason no matter how loud things got in the Jones’ trailer everyone minded their business. 

“What do you think is gonna happen, Fred? They’re just gonna come down here, see a dead body on the floor, and let us go?”

“It was self defense! It would’ve been you lying there instead of him if I didn’t do something!” Fred reasons.

Shit was so twisted, but Fred knows right from wrong. Years of living on the South Side may have warped FP’s perception of the world, but how could he argue with Fred about this? There was only one _right_ thing to do. 

With his eyes shut, FP rolls his neck and lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh my God…” He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair before looking at Fred again, all traces of sardonic humor gone. “You know what’s gonna happen if the cops come down here? One,” he starts ticking off points on his fingers, “they’re already gonna be looking to arrest somebody. Two, despite the fact that nobody likes to talk about it, everybody knows my dad and I don’t exactly get along, so who do you think is gonna become prime suspect number one? And three, what the _hell_ do you think is gonna happen when they go digging for information and find out about us, huh? Couple of queers sneaking around? A murder? On the South Side? They’ll be foaming at the mouth to lock us up. No one’s gonna give a shit what our story is.”

Blind optimism or sheer denial took over Fred, not even allowing the possibility for FP’s words to sink in. “No… no. No!” He shook his head profusely. “We tell them the truth and they’ll have to believe us because… because it’s the truth. And it’s what happened. And. And-”

FP slaps his hand on the counter in frustration, cutting off Fred’s rambling. “Dammit, Fred, I’m not letting you go to jail!”

It stuns Fred into silence, and as he stares into dark pools of FP’s eyes he sees for the first time how terrified he is. It somehow makes this ordeal feel even more real. Not that it wasn’t already, but now it feels tangible. Fred had always been one of those people who skated by in life. No matter what happened, he always managed to land on his feet without even trying. But now? It feels like he’s finally lost his footing. 

He feels sick. Completely powerless. There’s no rewind for what he’s done, and the realization that Senior’s not waking up and they can’t go back is too overwhelming for Fred to even comprehend. 

He looks down at the limp, lifeless body on the floor and quickly decides that’s a mistake. Bile rises in his throat that he has to fight to keep down as he looks the other way. “What do we do now?” He asks, voice hushed. 

“Now we clean up. And then I’ll drive him out into the woods and bury him, and we forget this ever happened.”

FP sounds so methodical, so matter-of-fact, that Fred can’t help but wonder if he’s done this before. He almost asks, but decides against it. Maybe it’s just a thing all South Siders are born knowing; how to properly dispose of a body. 

When Fred finally gets the courage to look up again, FP’s gone. He can hear some shuffling in the bathroom and a few minutes later FP returns with a torn shower curtain flung over his shoulder and a bottle of bleach in his hand. 

He wastes no time getting to work, pushing aside the kitchen table and chairs so he can lay the curtain out on the floor. “This is all we have,” FP states as he gets on his knees behind his dad. “Don’t know if it’s big enough but.” He starts pushing, trying to get the body onto the plastic. 

Fred immediately moves to help, kneeling down beside his boyfriend and using all his might to push. 

Even with the help, FP’s putting too much strain on himself. The exertion combined with the trauma his body had gone through earlier makes him lightheaded and he stops, leaning over his father’s body to try and catch is breath. 

“Hey, you okay?” Panic coats Fred’s voice as he scoots closer to FP, rubs a soothing hand up and down his back. “You don’t have to do this…” Fred doesn’t really want to be doing this either, but there’s really no choice now.

FP shakes his head. He takes a few deep breaths and sniffles into the crook of his elbow, wincing as he accidentally puts too much pressure on his tender skin, as he collects himself. “I’m fine. Just needed a second.” And then he’s back to the task at hand. 

It’s a struggle, but they manage to get Senior rolled up in the shower curtain, even if his feet end up hanging out the end of it. 

The blood’s an even bigger challenge. Somehow the more Fred scrubs at the linoleum, the more of that icky red seems to appear. It spreads everywhere, and Fred wonders if he’s somehow entered into hell and this is his penance - destined to mop up neverending pools of Senior’s blood.

Fortunately, the mess stops spreading after a while and the kitchen seems to be even cleaner than before, though Fred can’t help but double and triple check for any spots he’s missed. Feels like he might be doing that the rest of his life. The only thing stopping him from incessantly checking is FP announcing that he’s about to drive out to the woods. 

“Wait,” says Fred as he stands up, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to do this, Fred.” FP fiddles with the keys in his hand, eyebrows scrunched. Fred knows that look, knows that FP’s thinking about Fred’s virtue, his _goodness_. Knows how, since they met, it’s always weighed on FP’s mind that he’d somehow taint Fred by getting too close. And this? This was just about the worst case scenario. 

Fred makes his way across the room to stand in front of FP, places his hands gently on either side of his jaw, forcing FP to look at him. “Hey. We’re in this _together_. Got it? Where you go, I go.”

Fred sees the protest in FP’s eyes, but he doesn’t voice them out loud. Instead, he holds Fred’s gaze, nods in agreement, and says “We gotta get him to the truck without anybody seeing.”

Fred doesn’t know how they’re supposed to do that. They’re in a trailer park. There’s neighbors everywhere, and there’s not exactly any spot for cover. Fred nods anyway, because what other choice do they have? He gets a brief flash of those old slasher movies FP always wants to watch. The gore of bodies being hacked up to bits… Probably more discreet than carrying out a giant log in a shower curtain, but Fred doesn’t think he has the stomach for something like that. He _definitely_ doesn’t have the stomach for that. So he won’t mention it.

By some miracle they’re able to get Senior’s body in the bed of the truck with little commotion. 

The drive to the forest is tense. Normally Fred hates a musicless car, but he thinks this time it’s called for. Doesn’t really seem appropriate to shimmy and shake along to the Beach Boys when they’re hauling somebody off to his final resting place, the tension even thicker knowing what’s in store if God forbid they get pulled over.

They had tried looking for a tarp or something to cover Senior, but found nothing. The most they could do was duct tape a towel around his ankles to cover up his feet. If they get stopped, there’s no denying what’s under the shower curtain. Not to mention the state of FP’s face, how they’re both still sporting obvious blood stains...

Fred doesn’t think he’s ever seen FP obey traffic laws so closely before. 

It’s dark enough out that there’s some coverage, but it’s early enough that people are still out, looking for late night thrills. The main roads would be too crowded, which is why FP opted for the backroads. Long stretches of nothing with only the light of the moon and the truck’s headlights guiding them along. An odd car here and there passes, and Fred holds his breath each time. 

If he’s being honest, he’s been holding his breath since they left. It’s not until they’re deep into the woods, parked in a clearing that Fred can finally get some air, and even then it feels like breathing through a straw. 

FP’s out of the truck without a word, quickly heading for the back and grabbing the single shovel they could find. Fred thinks maybe he should go out, too, offer to help, but he can’t seem to move from his seat. Can’t seem to get his mind to wrap around the fact that he’s actually out in the woods about to bury somebody. Somebody that _he_ killed.

He feels guilty. It’s worse than guilt. It’s something so deep and awful he doesn’t even think there’s a name for it. This whole night has been _his_ fault, and he can’t even get out of the goddamn truck to help. This is _his_ mess to clean up. Not FP’s. And FP hasn’t even _asked_ which just makes Fred’s stomach twist up even more. Now’s not the time to be a coward. 

He takes a deep breath (Or tries to. His throat still feels constricted) and reaches for the handle on the door to let himself out. His knees are wobbly when he stands, but he somehow manages to make it over to the shallow grave FP’s digging without falling. There’s a mound of dirt about a foot high near Fred’s feet, and FP’s not long on his way to being covered in the stuff himself. 

“How deep are you making it?” Fred asks, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. It might be cold out, but he can’t tell. His whole body just feels numb. 

FP stops digging, leans his arms on top of the shovel as he surveys his progress, shrugs. “Dunno. Waist deep? Don’t think we need to go the full six feet.”

Fred nods. He doesn’t know _what_ he’s nodding for. Gravedigging isn’t exactly his area of expertise, but that seems right. He just hopes that’s deep enough to keep them from getting busted. 

FP goes back to digging, gets a few more shovels of dirt over his shoulder before Fred catches him swaying, almost collapses before Fred jumps into the hole with him and catches his shoulders. “Shit, FP! You alright?” He wraps one arm around FP’s waist to hold him steady while his free hand holds FP’s head up in a futile attempt to check his face. Everything’s so fucking dark out here, the trees shielding any light from the moon. The truck’s headlights are still on, but FP’s cast in shadow.

“‘M fine,” FP slurs, tries to push Fred away from him. He’s too weak. 

“You might have a concussion.” Fred tries checking FP’s eyes to see if he’s focusing, but he can’t see for shit. “You need a hospital.”

“No!” Whatever strength’s still left in FP’s body is being used to grip tightly onto the front of Fred’s shirt. Fred doesn’t need to see to know the panic on the other boy’s face, the seriousness of his objection. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sit down. No hospitals.”

Every instinct in Fred’s body is screaming to the contrary, but what can he do? He’s well versed in FP’s long history of aversion to doctors. God knows they’ve had enough fights about it. But he supposes maybe this time FP has a point. He doesn’t need to say it. Fred knows. Going to a hospital in this state will only lead to questions and they can’t afford that, especially now. But Fred’s also not willing to play God with his boyfriend’s life. He can keep an eye on him for the night, but the second shit looks like it’s taking a turn, his own life be damned, Fred’s getting FP to a hospital. 

“Fine, fine.” Fred gently pries the shovel out of FP’s hand before leading him off to the side to sit down. “I’ll finish this up. You just… stay here.”

It’s a testament to how fucked up FP must be feeling that he doesn’t even bother to argue once he’s seated on the ground. It definitely doesn’t make Fred feel any better. 

He’s left with the task of finishing digging the grave while simultaneously making sure FP doesn’t pass out, and there’s a point about midway through where FP scares the shit out of him, doesn’t respond to Fred calling his name. But it’s a false alarm, and Fred briefly considers hitting him with the shovel for raising his nerves like that. 

_”Dammit, FP. Don’t do that!”_

_“Sorry.” _

By the time Fred’s finished digging he feels disgusting. Caked in sweat and dirt that he thinks will take at _least_ three showers to rid him of. Though there’s already a part of him whispering that he’ll never really be clean again. Not after tonight. 

FP’s got enough energy back that he can help Fred get the body out of the truck with minimal difficulty (maybe they drop Senior once or twice. Maybe it wasn’t entirely an accident on FP’s part). 

Once he’s in the hole and the dirt is packed tight back in place the two teens just stand there and stare. 

There’s an odd tingle prickling up Fred’s spine like he’s waiting for something to happen. Like the end of _Carrie_ when her hand reaches out of the grave. He still feels dirty. Guilty. _Wrong_. He thinks maybe he should say something. That’s what you’re supposed to do at funerals, right? Say something about the deceased. Even if they were absolute assholes and you were the one responsible for ending their life… 

He looks over to FP in hopes of getting an answer, but all FP does is spit on the dirt and turn back towards the truck without a single word, and apparently that’s all the answer Fred’s going to get. 

The drive back is just as quiet as before, this time with Fred behind the wheel. FP sits in the passenger seat staring off into the dark. Fred can’t get a read on him the few times he takes his eyes off the road to glance over, but there’s a definite air of solemnity filling the space of the cab. Things have changed now, whether they want to admit it or not. 

FP turns on the radio, keeps the volume down low, before slumping over onto Fred’s shoulder. It takes Fred a minute to place the song, some haunting melody coming through the speakers that he eventually recalls Gladys having been listening to last time they hung out. Kate Bush, he thinks the singer’s name is. It doesn’t feel out of place in the truck, and somehow that worries Fred even more.

He glances down at FP, sees his eyes are closed but knows he’s not sleeping. He’s got this crease in the middle of his brow that he only gets when he’s thinking. Fred wants to ask, but doesn’t want to break the silence. Maybe too scared to.

Instead, Fred keeps one hand on the wheel, places the other on FP’s thigh and gives it a reassuring squeeze. _I’m here. I’m not going anywhere._

After a moment, Fred feels FP’s hand slip into his. He squeezes back, and it feels something like _thank you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it gets sexy... but like in an emotional way

The overwhelming stench of bleach fills FP’s nose almost before he even opens the door. He should probably open up the windows, he thinks, let some air in. But he can’t be bothered. All he really wants right now is a shower. Clean clothes. Enough hits from his stash to make this fucking headache go away.

He starts stripping off his shirt as he heads to the bathroom, conscious enough not to toss it onto the sterile floor, waits till he can set it on the bathroom counter. 

It’s the first time that night he’s gotten a look at himself, standing in front of the mirror. Dried blood is crusted along his face, his eye and cheek swollen. There’s cuts littered all over, but what really catches his attention are the finger shaped bruises on his neck.

They’re pronounced. Seemingly getting darker and darker the longer he stares. He traces over them with his fingertips, featherlight until he splays his fingers over each mark, lining them up perfectly in a mimic of his father’s hold. He keeps eye contact with himself through the mirror as his grip tightens, doesn’t really know _what_ he’s aiming for other than just to _feel_.

“What are you doing?” 

Fred’s voice startles him. FP can see him standing in the doorway behind him in the mirror. They lock eyes. FP brings his hand down to rest on the counter while Fred just stares in concern. FP stays quiet. Doesn’t know how to begin explaining himself even if he wanted to. 

And Fred must get the hint that he won’t be getting any answers, either, because he doesn’t push it. Just steps around FP till he’s on his other side and leans back against the counter to get a good look at FP’s face. “I gotta clean you up,” Fred mumbles before turning to search for the first aid kit. 

The bathroom is small (FP can touch wall to wall without any effort), so it doesn’t take long for Fred to locate the first aid underneath the sink even without FP’s help. 

He wets a washcloth first, holds FP’s chin gingerly between his thumb and index finger as he starts wiping away the gore. It’s somehow the most normal thing they’ve done all night, Fred realizes with a pang. This part he knows. Right now he’s reminded of just how many times he’s had to clean up FP’s wounds from fights with his father, and there’s a part of him that can’t help but feel justified in what he did tonight, even if FP’s life hadn’t been on the line. _He got what was coming to him_, Fred thinks darkly. 

“We have to burn these,” FP says, the first words he’s spoken in hours. His hands pull feebly at the hem of Fred’s shirt. Fred looks at himself in the mirror. Not that he needed the confirmation, he could already feel how dirty he was, but seeing it now proves his clothes are a wreck. Dirt and blood and no way in hell was any of this coming out. No way he could explain it even if it would. _Oh hey, mom. Do you mind washing these? It’s just that I _murdered_ somebody last night and you’d really be doing me a solid by washing away the evidence._

Yeah. No way.

Fred nods, reaching for the peroxide and cotton balls. FP only winces a little when he dabs the cuts. “I’ll do it later.”

“No.” FP shakes his head, accidentally bumping into the cotton ball in Fred’s hand hovering over his face. The sting of the antiseptic catches him off guard this time and he jolts away from it with a hiss. “I’ll do it. You’ve done enough already.”

He regrets the words as soon as he says them. Fred’s expression immediately drops, looking like FP just stabbed him in the chest and ran over his dog all at once, and FP’s mind is yelling at him to _say something_, to _fix this._

“Wait, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. _Fuck_,” he rushes out, reaches for the back of Fred’s neck and ignores the pain shooting up his ribs from the sudden movement. Fred’s whole body is rigid and FP can’t believe what a _fucking moron_ he is. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby, I promise.” He presses their foreheads together, but Fred still won’t look at him, eyes squeezed shut as tears spill down his cheeks. 

FP kisses them away, kisses over Fred’s cheeks and eyes and nose and everywhere he can in between whispered _I’m sorry_’s before taking Fred’s face in his hands. “Hey, look at me. Freddie, baby,” he coos, and _finally_ Fred opens his eyes, all red-rimmed and _hurt_, and FP wants to throw himself off a fucking bridge for causing it. “I just meant that you don’t have to do all the work. I should be helping.”

“Yeah,” Fred sniffles, “but I’m the one who-”

“_Don’t_,” FP interjects, and there’s enough force behind it to shock Fred. It’s the most energy FP’s had all night. He reaches for Fred’s hand, makes a show of holding it up in front of their faces and interlocking their fingers, his grip as tight as he can manage. “We are in this together, you hear me? You and me. It’s not just your mess to clean up.”

FP leans forward to press his lips to Fred’s knuckles. And it’s strange, but it’s the first time tonight it hits Fred that everything’s changed between them now. For better or worse remains to be seen, but it’s changed all the same.

What’s stranger still is that it all seems right, somehow. Fred still can’t bring himself to regret what he’s done, and there’s a part of him that’s terrified of that notion. But there’s another part that welcomes it, that knew he and FP would be bonded for life no matter what. Some primal part of him that had been itching and clawing to get at Senior the moment he learned about the bruises and marks that marred FP’s skin. Somewhere deep down Fred’s not _really_ surprised it came to this. On some level it always seemed like a plausible outcome. But he doesn’t know if he’s ready to face that side of himself yet. If he can ever truly make peace with it.

He finishes patching FP up, rids his face of most of the blood. FP looks… better isn’t the right word, Fred thinks, but not as dire as before.

They’re both in desperate need of a shower, and FP groans about needing a new shower curtain as he goes over to turn the nozzle on, the surrounding floor already starting to get wet. Fred looks around for towels, opens up a cupboard to find just enough for himself, FP, and the floor. 

FP’s stripped himself bare and is already soaking under the warm spray by the time Fred sets a towel down and disrobes himself, piling his dirty clothes along with FP’s in the sink. 

The heat is nice on his skin as he steps in, snaking his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and pressing close to his back. It’s anything but a soothing experience, though. The water comes out too hard and fast from the showerhead, but Fred figures it wouldn’t matter even if the trailer had the best water pressure on the planet. He’s not relaxing any time soon.

They stay like that for a minute or two, Fred’s chin hooked over FP’s shoulder while FP holds on to his arms. The silence is heavy between them, even as Fred reaches for the shampoo to lather through FP’s hair. And it’s not as if there’s anything in particular that needs to be said, but the quiet is unsettling, and Fred doesn’t like not having a read on what’s going on in FP’s head.

There’s a noticeable shift in the atmosphere of FP’s room now as Fred walks in, fresh out of the shower and clad only in the old, worn out towel slung around his hips. His skin’s still wet as he takes a seat at the edge of FP’s bed, still feels the heat of the shower suffocating him. 

This isn’t the same room he snuck in to earlier. The mattress is askew atop the boxspring that sits on the floor, the few belongings FP owns are in complete disarray. The dresser shows every sign of someone having been throttled into it. Worst of all, the ghost of Senior still lingers. The yelling and shouting, the _fear_ he instilled with just his presence. It’s the first and only time Fred has any insight into what it must’ve been like for FP every day.

In the bathroom FP leans over the counter, the fogged mirror wiped clean just enough to see his face. He’s lost in his own reflection, trying _so damn hard_ to feel something, _anything_. He tries to cry, to muster up even a single tear. He just watched his father die. Just buried him. He should feel _something_. 

But there’s nothing. Nothing but a blank face staring back at him, because no matter how hard he tries he can’t make himself feel anything but _relief_. There’s a flood of thoughts racing through his head right now. Emotions he’s feeling so intensely he thinks they might physically jump out of skin. But none of them are for his father. There’s no love lost there, and maybe that makes him a terrible person, a terrible son. But he’s got enough scars to prove that isn’t his fault. And it’s not lost on him that the only reason he’s even managed to think that, and actually believe it to be true, is because of Fred.

Fred. Who’s sitting on the bed when FP walks in to his room, and just that sight alone is enough to knock the air out of his lungs. It always does. Probably always will. FP can’t imagine a day where Fred Andrews won’t completely take his breath away. And he feels corny and mushy and he _never_ feels like this. Only for Fred, because Fred makes it okay. 

Because Fred gets to see the parts of FP that nobody else does. Because Fred’s different. Because despite FP’s best efforts to keep that part of him locked up and hidden, somehow Fred dug his way through every wall and made a home between FP’s ribs. And he’s _killed_ for FP, and that’s only ever something people _say_, never _do_, because their lives are normal and not fucked up and complicated. 

And Fred’s perfect. Has always been too good and pure to get dragged down with someone like FP Jones, but maybe Fred’s got a little dark in him, too. Or maybe FP put it there. The old line about the chicken and the egg springs to mind. Maybe it’s unsolvable.

“I need some clothes,” Fred says. And he’s not running. He’s sitting firmly on FP’s bed like he belongs there. And FP doesn’t know if he actually _does_, but he knows, selfishly, that he wants him to. Wants Fred cemented in every part of his life whether he belongs there or not.

FP nods once, but doesn’t move to grab him anything, instead stalking forward straight to Fred as if guided by some gravitational pull.

As he reaches Fred’s knees he lets the towel around his waist drop before climbing on to Fred’s lap, straddling him as he takes Fred’s face in his hands and slots their lips together.

Fred’s hands find FP’s waist immediately, skin still damp and warm, and he’s gentle, always _so gentle_, hyperaware of the beating his lover’s body had taken earlier.

The kiss, however, is anything but. It’s teeth and tongue and bite, like the adrenaline of the night is finally catching up to them, and it feels like this might be their _last_ night. And it feels like this is the first of a lifetime. And all FP knows is he’s never loved like this. Doesn’t think anyone has. It’s not possible.

Nothing can break this good feeling, he thinks, even when Fred puts a hand to his chest, palm flat over his racing heart, and pushes him away, but not far, because their lips are still brushing, FP can still feel the warmth of Fred’s breath when says “_Waitwaitwait, what are we doing?_”

And it’s a fair question, FP thinks, because they’ve just committed too many crimes to list and maybe their hormones shouldn’t be racing right now, but all FP can think about in this moment is how fucking in love he is and how this could all blow up in their faces tomorrow, and Fred’s looking at him with those big brown eyes that he could get lost in for hours and-

“No one’s ever loved me like you do,” FP says, breathless, tracing his fingertips down the side of Fred’s face like he’s some priceless work of art. And FP never lets himself be this honest, ever, but Fred’s hand is heavy on his chest like an anchor, and Fred _killed_ for him tonight, and- “No one’s ever kept me safe.”

FP slips his fingers into Fred’s hair, curls them into a gentle fist while Fred slides the hand on FP’s chest up to do the same. They gaze into each other’s eyes, searching their depths, only finding each other, and Fred whispers “I’ll always keep you safe,” and FP’s heart swells up so big he thinks he’ll cry.

But he keeps it together, somehow, kisses Fred instead, slipping his tongue against Fred’s along with a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan. He rolls his hips slowly down into Fred’s lap, his cock filling up between their bodies, brushing against Fred’s bare stomach causing both their lips to part in a gasp.

Fred’s hand tightens where it rests on FP’s waist, urging him forward to repeat the movement. 

He obliges, rolling his hips again, his tongue caressing the roof of Fred’s mouth before sucking Fred’s upper lip between his own. He can feel Fred growing hard beneath him, and his head spins dizzy with _want_. “God…” he whispers, voice sounding muffled against Fred’s lips. “_Fuck, Freddie._ Want you so bad.”

And maybe it’s more _need_ than _want_ at this point. Certainly feels like life or death. And Fred must hear it in FP’s voice, because he’s rutting his cock up against him, and it’s good. It’s _so fucking good_, but it’s not nearly enough. 

So FP leans over, as best as he can with his mouth still connected to Fred’s, pulls the drawer to his nightstand open and blindly fumbles around in search of the small bottle of lube he keeps hidden amongst the mess in there. 

When he can’t find it, too preoccupied with kissing his boyfriend, he reluctantly turns his head to get a better look, hisses out when a sharp pain shoots up his side when he twists the wrong way.

He finds the bottle the same time Fred’s hands settle on his ribs, gently holding on like that’ll take away the pain. Fred’s eyebrows are scrunched in concern when FP turns back to him, his hands rubbing so soft down FP’s sides they’re causing goosebumps. 

“You okay?” he asks. “We don’t have to-”

And FP cuts him off with another kiss, because he _needs_ this tonight, but doesn’t know how to vocalize that without his throat closing up on him. So he pulls back, rests his forehead against Fred’s, presses the small plastic bottle to Fred’s chest, and says “I want to.” And when Fred reaches up to take it he lets his hand linger on FP’s, stares into his eyes like he’s making sure FP really is okay. Because Fred actually _cares_, and despite his best efforts FP still isn’t entirely used to that.

But no matter how unsure he is, he also isn’t willing to let it go - this one reprieve from the rest of the bullshit that is his life. So he lets Fred take him, becomes putty in his hands as Fred sinks two slick fingers into him. 

His jaw falls slack, something akin to a whine spilling from his lips as Fred winds his other arm around FP’s waist, says “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” against his mouth before kissing him something soft and tender. 

Fred keeps a tight embrace as he turns them over, his own towel falling from his hips in the process, and lays FP flat on the bed, settling between his thighs. He makes deft work of his fingers, easing them in and out slowly as he whispers praise in FP’s ear (_”You’re doing so good. You’re so good for me.”_) and peppers kisses along his jaw.

FP still can’t find his words, a way around the burning in his throat. With his legs locked around Fred in a vice he nudges him forward, hoping he gets the message. 

But Fred doesn’t budge. Instead he trails open mouthed kisses to FP’s lips as he strokes over the spot that has FP’s thighs clenching against Fred’s ribs. A strained _”Fuck”_ spills from FP’s lips, but Fred swallows it before he has time to be embarrassed over how completely wrecked he already sounds.

“Doing so good for me baby,” Fred says again.

Something in FP’s chest tightens, and all he can do is buck his hips upward, says _”Please”_ like he’s begging for salvation. 

So Fred complies, slicking himself up before sliding into the heat between FP’s legs until he bottoms out. He remains still at first, gives them a moment to just _breathe_ together, their chests rising and falling in perfect sync. Fred knows what FP wants, can read the desperation on his face, feels it in the way FP wriggles underneath him like he’s getting impatient. “I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” Fred reassures, smoothing FP’s hair back from where it’s fallen over his eyes, his hand coming down to swipe his thumb across FP’s bruised bottom lip, careful not to reopen the cut that splits it.

That single statement holds so many meanings, so much weight. He’s not just talking about tonight. He means forever. Always. And maybe he’s too young to even know what that means yet but… He’s already crossed every line for the boy below him. Knows he’d do it all again in a heartbeat if he had to. 

He can’t stop staring. Every bump and scrape and bruise, the old scars welcoming what will sure to be new, keep fueling the fire in Fred’s chest, right between his ribs. But it’s the thick lines of red that now adorn FP’s neck that really make him implode. 

He traces them with a featherlight touch, can feel FP’s throat working underneath them like he’s swallowing down the pain, the _embarrassment_ of having Fred see him like this. Because Fred knows FP has always blamed himself. No matter how many times Fred had told him he shouldn’t, that it _wasn’t his fault._ Enough years of dealing with Senior’s abuse and it was just FP’s default. And that thought alone makes Fred’s heart break.

He leans forward and presses his lips to FP’s neck, soft but firm on marks that are sure to leave a dark echo of tonight come tomorrow. “Never again,” he whispers into FP’s throat. “No one’s hurting you ever again.”

“_Freddie…_”

And there’s fingers curling into his biceps, legs tightening against his ribs, and that’s all the cue he needs. 

There’s white hot heat coursing through FP’s veins once Fred finally, _finally_, starts moving. The slow, languid thrusts have tears already pooling in his eyes. They’re a culmination of the entire night; the hell his body’s been through, the delicate way Fred’s piecing it back together.

And FP doesn’t know if he’ll ever be _whole_. Doesn’t think he ever really had a chance at that to begin with. But he feels the closest to it when Fred’s inside him and they’re occupying the same space. Like they’re two halves coming together and for however long it lasts, FP feels like he’s finally found the place in this world he was meant to be in.

And Fred’s whispering _”I’ve got you, baby”_ and _”You’re safe now, sweetheart”_ against his throat. And FP almost _died_ tonight. They _both_ did. And he knows they’re not out of the woods yet. Is too keenly aware of the fact that they will spend the rest of their lives with this looming over their heads. And that’s a hard pill to swallow. But Fred’s in his ear telling him how much he loves him, and he’s putting FP back together with careful hands.

FP tries to bite back a sob, but it comes out anyway. His chest _aching_ with raw emotion, and Fred ceases movement. Holds himself up on strong hands and looks down at FP like he’s the most precious thing in the world. Wipes a tear from FP’s cheek and asks him “Are you okay?” and “Did I-?”

And FP shakes his head, brings his hands up to wipe his face clean and keeps them there, using them as shelter to hide his shame over what a fucking trainwreck he is. Because he can’t even handle someone caring about him without totally fucking losing it. And if that’s not the most pitiful shit he’s ever heard...

But Fred takes hold of his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, says “Hey. What’s the matter? Talk to me,” and places a kiss to FP’s palm.

It takes a second for FP to catch his breath, getting lost in the warmth of Fred’s eyes boring straight into his soul. There’s a million things he could say right now, but only one of them seems important as he reaches up to rake his nails through Fred’s hair. “I love you so fucking much,” he says, pulling Fred down into a kiss.

At some point their fingers end up laced together on the pillow beside his head, both holding on like they never want to let go. By the time Fred gets a hand on FP’s cock they’re both panting, bodies slick with sweat and it’s only _one, two, three_ strokes before FP’s spilling over Fred’s hand, Fred’s own climax following not long after.

“We’re gonna need another shower,” Fred jokes afterward when FP’s laying on his chest, damp curls tickling Fred’s chin.

FP doesn’t respond, just stays silent to the point where Fred thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep, maybe didn’t hear him. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off when FP says “You can’t stay here tonight,” and that… Fred wasn’t expecting that.

He leans to the side to get a better view of FP’s face, like that’ll give him any answers. “What are you talking about?”

FP untangles himself from Fred, gets up to throw on a pair of threadbare sweatpants that have seen better days and find spare clothes for Fred. “Your parents don’t know you’re here, right?”

“No… but-” Fred’s long since grown accustomed to the whiplash FP’s mood swings give him. He just wasn’t expecting to encounter one _now._ But maybe that’s his fault. Maybe he should’ve seen this coming.

“We gotta keep it that way.” FP turns and tosses his favorite Pearl Jam shirt and a pair of faded jeans he’s sure will hang loose on Fred’s skinny frame onto the bed.

Fred ignores them. The sheet drops low on his hips as he sits up proper in the bed, clearly readying himself for a fight on this. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight, F!”

And, despite popular belief, FP’s not _entirely_ stupid. He at least knows Fred well enough to have already predicted this argument. Which is why he stays calm, leans back against his dresser and runs his hands through his hair like this is all already settled. “Your parents don’t know you’re here, and we need to keep it that way,” he explains, voice steady, matter-of-fact. “It’s better in the long run if you’re home when they go to wake you up tomorrow.” It’s only a few hours till sunrise. They’re cutting it close as it is.

“And what about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” FP shrugs. “Always am.” 

Fred knows what that means. FP has never been _fine_. But he knows how to keep the facade going, how to keep people from looking too close so they can’t see how decidedly _not fine_ he is. And FP’s gotten so good at fooling everyone else that some days he’s even managed to fool himself. 

Fred’s expression goes soft, the way it always does when he’s reminded of the hell his boyfriend’s been through. It’s not pity, exactly, because FP _hates_ that and will throw a fit at the first sign of it, but Fred’s never been very good at hiding how upset the whole situation makes him feel. Because it’s fucking _sad_, and FP should have at least one person in his life who recognizes that.

“We gotta think of the bigger picture here, Freddie,” FP concludes, and if his voice starts to shake a little, Fred won’t bring attention to it.

And that seems to be the definitive end of the discussion, because what else is Fred supposed to say when FP’s clearly made up his mind? So he gets up, shoulders sagging as he gets dressed. FP comes over with one of his baseball caps and the only other pair of shoes he owns, black secondhand Chucks. 

“I can’t wear my own shoes?” Fred asks.

“They’re evidence.” FP drops the Chucks at Fred’s feet, lets him slip into them while FP places the cap atop Fred’s head explaining “Just incase anyone sees you leave. Keep your head down.”

“You sure you’ve never done this before?” It’s meant to be an attempt at humor, but there’s a waver to Fred’s voice like maybe he’s not entirely sure of who’s standing in front of him right now.

“I watch a lot of Unsolved Mysterious.” And there’s the faintest smile on FP’s lips that somehow makes Fred’s stomach settle even if just a little.

For all his talk about Fred needing to go home, FP hesitates when they get to the door, wrapping Fred tight in his arms and kissing him like it’s their last. 

Fred pulls away only to bury his face in the crook of FP’s neck, arms folding tight around his waist and hands settling at the small of his back, Fred’s fingertips dipping just under the band of FP’s sweatpants. He can feel the shiver that particular touch sends through FP’s body, and Fred can’t help his own as blunt nails begin to scratch along the hair at the base of his neck.

“It’s not too late to change your mind about me staying,” Fred mumbles into FP’s skin, not willing to move. He can feel the huff of breath FP lets out in response. 

“Don’t tempt me.”

And Fred knows he _could_, but that wouldn’t be fair. So he doesn’t. And instead they stay just as they are for a few more minutes, until they have to pry themselves off each other and really say goodnight. 

The cold air pricks at Fred’s skin when he finally steps outside. He wishes he had on something warmer, but it’s not like FP has enough to spare (he can barely keep himself warm), and Fred’s jacket is shot to shit, so there’s really no use in complaining. 

He folds in on himself, trying to trap whatever heat he can as he holds himself, but he stops for a second to look back at the trailer. None of the lights go off. He can see FP’s silhouette walking to the back of the trailer, maybe to bed, Fred thinks, or the bathroom to start cleaning up. 

Sleep’s not coming to either of them tonight. May be a while till they see it proper again. And there might be a shitstorm headed their way, a dark, looming cloud forming over the sea at this very moment. But Senior’s gone. And he’s not coming back. And even with the hundred and ten things they still have to worry about, _that’s_ not one of them. And there’s solace to be found there. Because _that_ nightmare is over, and the rest doesn’t seem to matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how i said this was gonna be like 3 chapters? sothatwasalie.jpeg  
comments and kudos much appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

Fred doesn’t get any sleep that night.

He had crawled in through his bedroom window some time in the early morning, hadn’t even bothered undressing before flopping down onto his bed, over the covers. There’d been a tiredness deep in his bones, but his heart beat too fast for him to settle in whatever time he had left before he had to be up for school.

He had tried closing his eyes to coax sleep along, but visions of red flashed behind his lids every time he did. The smell of dirt still clung to him despite his shower. He started to wonder if maybe it was just a figment of his own troubled imagination. Every creak of the house made him jump, constantly on edge that _something_ was coming for him. He would go willingly, he thinks, with whatever it was. His only hope that it spared FP.

Fred’s parents would be so disappointed, if they ever found out what he’d done. His mother would probably cry, be inconsolable. Fred would feel bad about that most of all. But he still doesn’t think he’d regret what he did. And maybe that would be a harder pill for his parents to swallow.

Any worry he has for himself pales in comparison to what he feels for FP, though. He shouldn’t have left him. 

FP’s moods are predictable in their unpredictability. Fred had learned that years ago. His highs are high and his lows are subterranean, and there’s no way he should be left alone right now. It’s hard to imagine how someone could get themselves into any more trouble after the night they had, but if anyone could do it…

Fred’s still in his head when the sun starts peeking up over the horizon. Normally his mother has to drag him out of bed to get ready for school, but not today. Never having gone to sleep, combined with the need to see FP, to check on him, has him jumping out of bed unprompted for maybe the first time in his young life. 

He doesn’t bother changing clothes, still clad head to toe in FP’s. He figures he can get away with it. Jeans are jeans, and it’s not like he’s never shown up to school in one of FP’s shirts he’s left around before anyway. Plus, there’s something comforting about them. Something to tie him over ‘til he’s back with their owner.

He stands in the bathroom brushing his teeth, staring intently at the mirror while he weighs the pros and cons of not waiting for school to see FP. There’s always a chance he won’t show. Fred even debated himself if he should fake ill today. But going to the trailer seems risky. It’s not normal for him to go down there. Was always forbidden by FP because of Senior. And while he may not be a problem anymore, it’s not lost on Fred that the one time he broke that sacred rule it ended in a felony. So maybe he shouldn’t tempt fate a second time. She doesn’t seem to be too kind. __

_“We gotta think of the bigger picture here, Freddie.”_ The words echo in his head. He spits in the sink and settles on just going straight to school. Like every other day. Normal. Unsuspecting. And FP will be there because he has to be. Because even though they did a very bad thing the night before, it was for the right reasons. And the universe must know that. God, or whatever higher power exists, must know that. So things will settle. And they’ll be fine.

It’s a nice sentiment, and Fred tries really hard to believe it, but he goes downstairs and sees the breakfast his mother has made and has to fight the sudden urge to hurl. 

“Freddie!” Bunny Andrews calls, her usual motherly chipper blaringly out of place for this particular morning. “I was just about to come wake you.” She’s just finishing setting the table, and once she finally looks up to properly greet her son, her face falls. Panic settles over Fred. He had looked fine when he saw himself in the mirror earlier, granted, a little tired. But she knows. Maybe he missed a streak of dirt somewhere. Maybe Senior’s blood is still on him. But she knows. _She knows._ “Honey, you don’t look so good.” Bunny comments, rounding the kitchen table to stand in front of him, places the back of her hand to his forehead. “You feeling okay?”

Fred’s throat clicks. He feels like he’s sweating. _Is it getting hot in here?_

It’s not like he’s never lied to his parents before. But he’s learning suddenly there’s a world of difference between lying about sneaking out past curfew for a joyride with your buddies and fucking _murder_.

And if his anxiety hasn’t already spiked, it certainly does when his father chooses that moment to come waltzing in. 

It’s not that Artie Andrews himself is a scary man, but there’s a special type of fear that strikes Fred when his father is trying to suss out a lie. Maybe it’s unwarranted, because the worst punishment Fred’s ever been dealt was two weeks manual labor while housebound. And it was a pain in the ass and exhausting, sure. But Fred knows there’s people out there who have it worse. Witnessed it firsthand last night. But something tells him if he gets caught this time, his punishment will be biblical.

“You’re looking a little pale there, son,” Artie says as he walks by to claim his spot at the head of the kitchen table.

“I just, um.” Fred’s feeling lightheaded. There’s no way he can keep this up. Someone’s gonna see right through him. “I have this presentation today. So. ‘m just nervous.”

“Well have some toast or something. Settle your stomach,” Bunny says, cradling her son’s face in her hands, still looking him over.

“No. Really, it’s fine,” Fred says, gently pulling out of his mother’s grasp. “I’ll just get something at school. I gotta get some last minute studying in at the library anyway.” 

Bunny and Artie share a look like something isn’t sitting right with that excuse, and Fred mentally kicks himself for not coming up with something better. Of course early morning study sessions would sound an alarm.

He gives his mother, then father, kisses on the cheek before they have any time to question him. He grabs his backpack and heads to the door as casually as he possibly can, which he doesn’t think is really saying much. “I’m fine. Really,” he reassures as he turns back, halfway out the door. His mother doesn’t seem all that convinced, but she nods anyway and tells him to have a good day. 

It’s his father that worries him, looks at him with that skeptical look he always does when Fred’s doing something he’s not supposed to. It feels worse than usual now, though. Fred wants to just chalk it up to his guilty conscience, but there’s a voice whispering at the back of his mind that Artie really does have the telepathic powers Fred’s suspected since childhood. And sure, maybe he’s officially flown off the deep end with that one, but he still gets the hell out of there and closes the door behind him, creating as much space as quickly as possible between him and his father just in case.

School doesn’t really fare any better. FP’s nowhere to be found when Fred gets there, which should be expected, really. On his best days he tends to cut it close to the bell. Fred should’ve known there was no way in hell he’d actually show up early, especially today. He just hopes FP’s gotten the rest Fred couldn’t. 

Third period is when Fred starts to worry. He stares at FP’s empty seat in History, practically chews off his thumbnail as further paranoia sinks in wondering where the hell his boyfriend is. Everyone else is paired off to work on their upcoming report, but Fred just spends the class with an empty notebook on his desk feigning productivity while he internally runs through every worst case scenario possible. 

The bell rings, and he hauls ass out of there. He spots Alice and Hal first, shoving his way through bodies trying to go about their perfectly normal days to get to Alice’s locker. She’s putting books into her messenger bag while Hal crowds up behind her, one arm resting on the locker by her head while the other snakes around her waist. She’s giggling at something he whispered in her ear. 

Fred feels a pang of jealousy at the sight. Even worse, he’s _angry_. And it’s a strange feeling to reconcile with, because Alice and Hal are two of his best friends, and he’s only ever been supportive of their relationship. But there’s this hot spike of rage that’s creeping up his spine seeing them together now. It’s not even _them_ that he’s angry at. At least, he doesn’t think so. It’s just that it’s not fair that they get to do this in front of everyone else, and he can’t. Not with FP. And maybe if they could he wouldn’t be trying to chase FP down right now, fighting against every knot in his stomach that twists and turns wondering if maybe he’s sitting in a cell right now, staring down the barrel of 25 to life.

But misplaced anger won’t do him any good. So he checks himself, focuses on the task at hand. 

“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath as he approaches his friends. Alice and Hal turn to him eerily in sync. “You guys haven’t seen FP around, have you?”

“No. He wasn’t in first,” Hal says as Alice closes her locker and sinks into his side, Hal’s arm going tighter around her waist. Fred pretends not to notice the jealous feeling creeping its way back in. 

“He’s probably ditching,” Alice offers unhelpfully. “You know how he is.” Her voice is thick with contempt, the way it always is when she’s talking about FP. 

Normally it doesn’t bother Fred. Those two have never gotten along, and honestly, most of the time it’s entertaining watching their back-and-forths. But all Fred wants to do now is scream about how this is serious, how he needs help. Except he can’t. And that just makes him angrier. 

He bites it down. Goes for a resigned “Yeah, maybe,” instead of blowing up like he wants to. He looks past the couple in front of him, zoning out as he mentally goes through a checklist of who else he can ask, tries to remember who has FP’s schedule. He doesn’t notice Alice snapping her fingers in front of his face.

“Hey! Ground control to Major Airhead!” she says, but despite the teasing tone she looks more than a little concerned. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Fred lies, fixing the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. “We just have a project to work on, and I really need to talk to him about it.” He catches sight of Marty Mantle on the other side of the hallway then. Fred can’t remember if he and FP share any classes this early in the day, but they’re both on the football team so… that means something, right? That’s really all Fred needs to go on at this point. “I’ll catch you guys later,” Fred says to Hal and Alice, not even looking their way as he sprints off down the hall.

“Fred!” Alice calls after him. “_FRED!_” 

But he doesn’t turn around. He catches up to Marty just as he’s leaving his locker, falling in step with him as they presumably head towards Marty’s next class. “Mantle! Have you seen FP today?”

Marty doesn’t miss a beat in his step, scoffing at Fred’s question. “I don’t slum it with Jones. Thought that was your territory.”

Fred wants to ask why he was so eager to get a look at FP’s dick with that little streaking incident they pulled then, but thinks better of it. Pick your battles, time and place, yada yada. He settles for an eye roll. “I just figured since you guys were teammates maybe you’d-”

“Just because the guy can throw a football doesn’t mean I want to sit and braid his hair on the weekends. He’s good for scoring, and he’s lucky he’s got that going for him. Are we done?” Marty doesn’t wait for a response, just ditches into the stairwell and heads up. 

Fred’s fists are clenched at his sides. _God_, he wants to deck that guy. He mutters “_Asshole_,” under his breath instead.

He tries a couple more people on his way to class, all to no avail. Fred tries to calm his nerves by repeating to himself that FP’s probably just home taking the day to himself, most likely sprawled out on the couch smoking joint after joint. But even if that were true, he shouldn’t be doing it _alone_. 

All Fred can focus on through trig is how weirdly calm FP had been last night. And, sure, maybe Fred wasn’t expecting FP to shed any tears over his father, but… surely he must’ve felt _something_. It doesn’t sit right with him. And if he knows FP as well as he thinks he does (and he _does_), he knows FP’s a ticking time bomb. 

Fred gets called on in class, gets scolded when he doesn’t have the vaguest idea of what the answer is because all he’s been focusing on for the past 30 minutes is the steady _tick, tick, tick_ in the back of his head. His teacher tells him something about paying attention, how he needs to learn to grow up if he plans on being a functioning adult anytime soon. Fred’s had enough growing up for a lifetime, but he smiles politely and says “Yes, ma’am,” and goes back to ignoring the lesson when she goes back to teaching.

The bell rings, dismissing everyone for lunch. Fred knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if FP’s at school at all, now’s when he’ll find him. So he goes to their spot; the spacious shade of a white oak, away from prying eyes. And he waits. And he waits. And he waits some more. The granola bar he picked out of the vending machine is ripped to pieces by the time he realizes FP’s not coming. That he was never coming. That Fred should’ve predicted this and just gone over to the trailer this morning instead. 

Lunch isn’t over, but he’s made up his mind. Granola crumbs fall off his lap as he stands up, food for the birds to feed on later. He’s still got classes left, but screw it. What’s missing a few classes when you’re facing the possibility of not even graduating. He’s made up his mind. He’s gotta find FP.

\--

The first thing FP does when Fred leaves is grab a mop to clean up the mess in the bathroom. The second thing he does is throw their bloody clothes in a garbage bag.

After the mess they had to clean in the kitchen, the bathroom feels like a piece of cake. It helps that FP’s running on autopilot, going from one task to the next without leaving any room for thinking. 

He’s gonna get high off of bleach fumes, has the briefest concern over whether or not that, combined with the possibility of a concussion, is gonna do any damage. But what’s one more trauma, really?

The bathroom looks spotless by the time he’s done, just like the kitchen. It sort of makes him proud, like he wants to hit up the rest of the trailer to make it presentable for once in its pitiful life. The shower still needs a new curtain, though. He thinks maybe he has some money for one somewhere. But that’s a tomorrow problem, or whenever he gets around to it.

He makes his way to every window to crack them open, get some of the bleach smell out before it makes him pass out. He kind of wants to. The adrenaline from the night is starting to wear off, but there’s this nagging feeling at the base of his spine that he can’t shake. 

Senior may be dead and buried, but even FP isn’t naive enough to think that’s the end of this story. His life is never that easy. He can’t shake the image of some animal coming across the makeshift grave and digging up the body. Or some big chain store coming in to bulldoze the woods only to dig up the earth and find an unwelcome surprise. 

He watches too much tv, sure. But when it comes to a murder cover-up he figures it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

There’s one problem, though. A glaringly large, ginormous problem: FP doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Sure, cleaning up the scene and burning the clothes are obvious first steps. Murder 101. Every idiot knows that. He’s a little in over his head with the rest. 

He had decided to keep that part from Fred. He had tried to stay cool and calm for his boyfriend’s sake, which, in reality, surprisingly wasn’t that hard. Even now there’s an odd stillness to him. He’s nervous, sure. Even scared, maybe. But he feels like there should be something _more_. Or maybe he just really is as fucked up as everyone thinks he is. 

But that’s not really worrying him right now. Right now he’s more focused on not getting caught, not getting _Fred_ caught. And for as much as this whole night should remain between the two of them, he knows he’s not equipped to handle this himself. Not if he wants to make sure Fred doesn’t go down for this.

There’s only one person in the world he trusts for this. And, luckily, she’s also the only person he knows who will know how to do this right. So he heads to his room, throws on a shirt and his boots before sneaking out under the cover of night across the trailer park. 

Sunnyside isn’t the suburbs. Everything doesn’t wind down when the sun does. No one’s expected to be tucked away safely in their homes past 10 o’clock. There’s always a fight to be had, a deal to be made, a party to be thrown. So FP keeps his head down, stays in the shadows. Out of sight from any possible prying eyes. 

He reaches Gladys’ trailer and finds her window without difficulty, gives it a steady stream of taps until she’s flinging it open in a huff. Her hair’s all wild from sleep, FP can tell in the moonlight. It makes her look soft, something he’d tease her about if he wasn’t in such dire straits. 

“The fuck do you want?” She asks with all the pleasantry of a viper. 

FP expected that. Gladys values her sleep and in general hates to be bothered. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the pair of tits that are suddenly in his face. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have been an unwelcomed sight, but, well, these aren’t normal circumstances. “Jesus will you put some clothes on?”

Gladys’ expression doesn’t change. “Do I barge into your trailer in the middle of the night and tell you how to dress? No. So _what the fuck do you want,_ FP?”

FP shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s a slight chill in the air. Nothing too cold, but suddenly he’s freezing. “I need your help with something.” He won’t meet her eyes, stares at the dirt where his boots are digging in. 

“If this is about how to get cum stains off of leather I already told you-”

“I’m in serious shit, Gladys!” FP snaps, eyes finally meeting hers. 

Gladys’ face falls, her posture straightening as the severity of whatever situation FP’s in registers. “Alright. Give me a second.” She disappears into the dark of her room. 

FP tries to slow his racing heart. Pacing back and forth with his hands behind his head probably isn’t helping, but it’s all he can think to do.

Gladys comes crawling through her window about a minute later in an oversized t-shirt and not much else. FP’s still pacing. She keeps her distance. “What’s going on with you?” She sounds as worried as she looks. She’s never seen FP so bent out of shape before, which is really saying something because he’s not exactly known for his calm and cool demeanor.

FP thinks if he keeps moving maybe the right words will come to him, because he sure as shit doesn’t have them right now. He should just spit it out, the reason he’s here. Gladys could handle it. Or maybe it’s more tactful not to spring a murder on someone. Better to ease them into it. He’s no etiquette expert, but something tells him there’s no proper protocol for shit like this, even if he really did care about the most socially acceptable option.

But Gladys can only watch him spin in circles for so long before it makes her head spins. “Will you sit still! You’re making me dizzy.”

“My dad’s dead,” is what FP comes back with, finally standing still to look at Gladys. 

It’s almost comical the way her jaw drops, eyes go wide. But then she’s taking a step forward and reaching her hands out to him, a pitying “Oh, FP…” falling from her lips because she may have known Senior was a son of a bitch, but what else are you supposed to say when someone’s only parent dies?

FP takes a step back before she can reach him, his hands going up in front of him defensively because pity is the last thing he wants. Doesn’t need it. “It’s not- I don’t want to talk about it out here,” he says, eyes shifting around to check if there’s an audience. 

Maybe it’s because she’s just been woken up from a deep sleep that she was slow on the uptake (FP’s never exactly been hard to read), but she’s finally getting a sense of the severity of the situation she’s about to be dragged into. FP’s always dramatic, sure. Blowing things up way out of proportion just to feed whatever one of the hundred complexes he has. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a suddenly dead (abusive) parent plus obvious paranoia can’t mean anything exactly _legal_. Not to mention the fact that she knows if Senior just casually dropped dead, FP would have no reason to come to her in the middle of the night. 

“Alright, that’s fine,” she says, tone akin to something she’d use for a scared child. “Let’s go inside, and we’ll talk.”

FP shakes his head, a vehement _no_. “We have to do it at mine.”

“Yeah, sure.” She tilts her head back towards her window, eyes never leaving him. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll be over in a few.”

FP nods, his thumb brought to his mouth so he can nibble the skin around his nail. Gladys gives him a nod of her own, a show of agreement, before turning and crawling back through her window.

It’s not long after FP makes it home that Gladys is letting herself in to his trailer. 

“Ya know, normally when people are up to shady shit they have enough common sense to lock their doors.” An overpowering chemical smell hits her in the face then, and she brings the back of her hand up to her nose to try and block it. “Jesus Christ, did a bleach factory explode in here?” 

“Shut up, it’s not that bad,” FP argues lamely.

“It really concerns me that you think that.” And for the second time that night realization dawns on Gladys about what exactly it is she’s stepping in to. Her eyes go wide, head tilting to the side as her hand drops, and she stares at her friend. “FP, what happened tonight?” She’s already pieced the puzzle together, but she needs to hear him say it. 

There’s something about having to say the words out loud that has FP faltering. Like this, above everything else, will make tonight real, when so far he’s just felt like he’s been in some fever dream, listlessly dragging along. “I, um. My dad-” He struggles with the phrasing before settling on “He didn’t die of natural causes, let’s just say.”

“Please do not tell me you _murdered_ your fucking _dad_ where I am _standing_!” She whisper-yells at him, a finger enthusiastically pointing at the ground to emphasise key words.

And, well, _technically_ FP did no such thing. But he thinks that won’t matter all that much to Gladys right now. So he just shrugs instead. 

“Well, that explains the bleach smell,” Gladys says to the ground, looking for any other telltale signs of the night’s festivities. She drags her hands through her hair, trying to keep her composure. “What’d you do? Chop him up?”

“What? No. I mean, I thought about it, but…” _But it would’ve been too much for Fred_, he finishes in his head. Maybe would’ve been too much for himself, too, though he’s not so confident about that part.

“Where is he?” Gladys asks, head still down as she walks around the kitchen to inspect it. “And, I swear, if you say he’s in the bathroom…”

“Fox Forest.”

Gladys whips her head up, her face going through a range of emotions before settling on something like worry. She hadn’t noticed them before, in the dark, but in the light of the trailer she sees them now, the angry red lines that mar FP’s skin.

It hits her all at once what must’ve happened tonight. She didn’t really know what her theory was before. Forsythe Senior wasn’t by any definition a good guy, and she could think of a hundred reasons why anyone would kill him, let alone his own son he’d been tormenting his entire life. But seeing the fresh wounds now, and knowing what she knows… She’d kill Senior himself if he wasn’t dead already. 

Stepping towards FP with arms outstretched she whispers “_Baby_,” before wrapping him up tight in her embrace.

He lets her, this time, but he doesn’t make any move to reciprocate. Just stands still in her arms as she cards her fingers through his hair. 

She’s not expecting anything, he can tell. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling like he _should_ be doing something. _Feeling_ something besides uncomfortable under this kind of attention. He’s in some sort of emotional limbo, and he doesn’t think anything will shake him out of it. Thinks maybe this started long before tonight. 

“He was gonna kill me,” is all he says. Mutters it into Gladys’ shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” she tells him, petting his hair. “You don’t got to explain it to me. Bastard had it coming.” She pulls back to look him in the eye, her hands sliding to his jaw. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Help me not go to prison?”

Gladys smirks, giving his chin a playful shove with her knuckle. “That I can do.” She heads over to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair and swinging it around so she can straddle it, her arms resting on the back. “You said he’s in Fox Forest?” FP nods. “Hope you took him far enough in.”

“I think so,” FP says. “Nobody goes cruisin’ that deep in the woods.”

“I’ll trust your expertise on that,” Gladys teases. 

FP rolls his eyes, but it’s more playful than anything else he’s felt tonight. A sign he hasn’t been completely lost to the darkness yet. 

“So, do you want him _missing_, or do you want him _dead_?” Gladys asks, her tone going serious again.

FP’s brow furrows. “What’s the difference?”

“A police investigation, mainly.”

“Okay, so… do the one that doesn’t involve that,” FP says, like Gladys is the stupid one for even suggesting another option. 

Gladys’ hand shoots up, a sign of pause. “Slow down, cowboy. I can make this look like an accident, but that’s gonna lead to a funeral, public mourning…” She ticks off on her fingers.

“As if anyone expects me to throw a funeral for him,” FP argues.

“You think the Serpents are gonna let one of their own die without make a big fucking to-do?” Gladys argues back. “You’re gonna have to play the part of the grieving son regardless, and, no offense, FP, but you’re not that good of an actor.” 

“Well then let everyone know I hated the son of a bitch!” FP snaps, reaching out and swiping at whatever’s on the counter beside him. A rattle of plates and cutlery echoing in the room as they hit the linoleum. He thinks the coffee pot might have been a casualty, too, and that’s really unfortunate because he definitely can’t afford even a used one of those right now.

“Woah, hey!” Gladys pushes up off her chair. “I get that this is a stressful time for you, but you throw shit even in my slightest general direction again and your ass is on your own.”

It takes FP a second to respond, his breathing too heavy to get a single word out. His eyes dart from Gladys’ face, to the floor, and back again. “‘M sorry,” he finally says when his breathing starts to even out. “Just- Do whatever involves less cops.”

Gladys stays silent, observing FP’s face for a moment before something clicks. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The silence is deafening as FP stands there unresponsive, wordlessly pleading with Gladys not to press him on this. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her enough to give up Fred’s name, obviously he does, but somehow it would feel like a betrayal if he did. And, he rationalizes with himself, the less he opens his mouth, the better it’ll be in the long run. For everyone.

But FP can’t lie to Gladys, either. She can read him like a book, has this uncanny ability to see right through people. _Can’t bullshit a bullshitter_, or something like that. 

He leans back against the counter, fingers white knuckling the edge despite his otherwise lax exterior. He looks up at Gladys through the strands of hair that have fallen over his eyes. “I’m telling you what you need to know.”

Gladys looks him over for a moment, folding her arms across her chest. She can feel the desperation coming off of FP in waves, shifts her feet as she feels her resolve crumbling for him. She sucks on her teeth, an accompanying eyeroll following suit. “Fine. You can fill me in on the _important_ details on our way to the woods.”

“Yeah,” FP nods, pushing the hair out of his face. “That’s fine.”

Gladys nods her head once. “Good. I assume you’ve gathered up all the incriminating evidence?”

“Yeah.” FP gestures to the bathroom. “It’s all in a bag. I was gonna burn it.”

“Smart,” Gladys says, sounding only slightly impressed.

It’s a little fucked up maybe, given the circumstances, but FP can’t help but feel a little proud at the praise. A little reassurance that he had at least one good idea tonight.

“Alright. Grab your shit.” Gladys claps her hands for emphasis. “We gotta get a move on. The quicker we do this, the better, and it’s gonna be light out soon.”

FP shifts himself into gear, refocusing his energy as he pushes away from the counter and heads to the bathroom. He only makes it a few steps before he stops, turning around and throwing himself at Gladys for a hug. 

He’s got a few inches on her, has to hunch over to get his arms around her properly. But he manages. Squeezes her tight with this unexpected surge of emotions. 

Gladys is stunned at first, arms hovering over FP before gently settling on his back. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Jones,” she says into his shoulder, but it’s more soft and assuring than it is biting. When FP doesn’t move, not even to give so much as a breath of a laugh, she holds on to him tighter, whispers “It’s gonna be okay,” and only then does his body start to unclench.

FP pulls away first, his face blotchy, though he hasn’t been crying. Gladys reaches up to cup his cheek, stroking her thumb against soft skin as her lips stretch thin in a tight smile. FP doesn’t really look at her before he turns from her touch, heading to the bathroom. Gladys doesn’t take it personally.

He comes out a few seconds later, standing in the entryway of the kitchen with a black plastic bag in hand. “Let’s go torch this shit,” he says, looking down at the bag like it’s yesterday’s trash and not a smoking gun.

“Shame we don’t have anything for s’mores,” Gladys says back, tone matching FP’s blasé. Her attempt at lightning the mood. “Maybe we could make a stop at the store first.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Gladys is pretty sure she didn’t imagine the little tick of a smirk on FP’s lips when he said that.

He leads the way out of the trailer without another word. Gladys follows suit to Senior’s truck, hopping into the passenger seat. They sit in silence for a moment, FP behind the wheel, but making no moves to start the engine. 

Gladys knows better than to ask if he’s okay. He’s not, but he’ll lie. To her. To himself. So she gives him this time, even if they are running on a tight schedule. 

Fortunately, he’s starting the truck before she has to open her mouth to push him forward. Saves her from having to bitch at him for the second (third? She’s lost count) time that night. And soon enough it’s just the two of them and the empty backroads of their sleepy little town.

\--

The hall’s filled with students bustling their way to class. Fred’s dodging bodies left and right, his only goal the end of the hall where the door leads out to the parking lot. He doesn’t have a car, and the muscles in his legs are already screaming from his purposeful power walking, but he’ll crawl his damn way down to the South Side if he has to.

He’s almost at the finish line, can practically taste the fresh air on his tongue when suddenly he’s being pulled from the side.

It’s dark, wherever he is. The music room, maybe? He screams out of reflex, but before it can draw any attention it’s being quieted by a pair of lips on his, his face suddenly being cradled by two large hands. 

He’d recognize those lips even in a deep coma, but it doesn’t do anything to assuage his confusion. He reaches up to pull the hands away from his face, stepping away from the kiss to finally get a look at his boyfriend’s face. “FP, what’re you- Where have you been all day?”

“Tying up loose ends. All tied now,” FP explains, voice gone husky. He won’t stand still, keeps bouncing on the balls of his feet and jittering around. There’s a hunger to him as he lurches forward again for another kiss, so eager as he twists his hands in Fred’s grip to lock their fingers together. 

Fred manages to back away again just as their lips meet. FP’s whole demeanor is putting him on edge, can’t make heads or tails of it. “What does that mean? ‘Tying up loose ends’?”

“It _means_,” FP drawls, taking their still connected hands and bringing them around to rest on the small of his back, forcing their bodies closer, “everything’s taken care of.”

FP says it against Fred’s lips. Sultry. Inviting. But Fred’s still standing there confused as ever. He searches FP’s eyes for some hint of _anything_; a clue or a sign as to what the hell is happening right now. But he comes up empty. There’s a pit in his stomach that’s been there since last night that’s only getting bigger.

“Ditch the rest of the day,” FP says, snapping Fred from his thoughts with a soft kiss to his lips. Moves down to his neck. “Come home with me.” Another kiss, this time a little more forceful, with a little more teeth. “We can celebrate.”

‘Celebrate’ doesn’t really seem fitting for the situation they’re in, but Fred has to bite down on his lip to keep himself from groaning, anyway. His own stupid body betraying him. “I have a test last period,” he tries to argue, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He may have had his sights set on FP’s trailer a few short minutes ago, but under entirely different circumstances. He’s a little intimidated by it now. Have it to face it in the light of day. With this version of FP… whatever that means. It’s scaring him that he doesn’t know.

“Make it up tomorrow,” FP whispers against the skin of Fred’s neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up to Fred’s jaw, sucking on the spot he lands on.

Fred’s knees go a little weak, despite his best efforts to remain in control of himself. He squeezes FP’s hands tight in a vain attempt at doing just that. “What happened to us keeping things normal?”

“Ditching, for us, _is_ normal.”

“Yeah, but-” Fred starts, but the bell signaling the start of 4th period rings. 

FP’s the one who pulls back this time, staring at Fred with his bottom lip between his teeth and eyebrows raised waiting for Fred to finish his thought. 

“I can’t…” It pains Fred to say it. But something isn’t sitting right. He thought it was his anxiety, at first, but the more he sits with this feeling, the more it feels like something different. 

FP nods once, shrugs his shoulders. His face falls only just a little. “That’s okay. Come over after?”

“I got practice after.” And, _fuck_, Fred hadn’t even remembered that until this moment. His body already feels on the verge of giving out, and he’s only made it halfway through the day. He doesn’t know if he’s gonna survive baseball practice. “But, yeah. I’ll come later.”

FP’s face lights up again in a manic sort of way that does nothing to put Fred at ease. “Great!” he says before taking hold of Fred’s face again, planting a kiss on his lips that this time Fred returns, albeit somewhat hesitantly. “See ya later, Freddie.”

He turns and heads for the door, but before he can reach it Fred’s calling out to him. FP spins around on his heel, waiting expectantly for whatever Fred has to say.

“Everything’s okay, right?” Fred asks, because he can’t just let FP leave without doing so. The question would just burn in his mind the rest of the day. “I mean, _you’re_ okay? Right?”

FP smiles at him, bright and almost deceiving enough. “Never better.”

Fred doesn’t believe him, but he keeps his mouth shut. This isn’t the place to start a fight. So he nods, gives FP a small smile and watches the other boy slip out of the room. 

Fred’s left standing alone in the dark with nothing but FP’s parting words bouncing back and forth in his head, and he can’t help but think things are anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 kudos = appreciation for gladys' tiddies  
1 comment = more appreciation for gladys' tiddies

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos much appreciated! i dont know how long this fic is gonna be. right now im thinking 3 chapters? but im just kinda winging it. as i do everything. so. we'll see what happens


End file.
